Allies
by love.devil.movies.baby
Summary: Recently widowed and reeling, Michonne finds an unlikely ally in Officer Rick Grimes. Written for the Richonne Just Desserts AU challenge
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Hi all! This is a little fic written for Richonne Just Dessert's AU Challenge. My prompt was "Activists". I hope you all enjoy!**

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"Officer Grimes."

She was standing on his front porch, wrapped in a crimson pea coat, shivering in the cold of the winter evening. He recognized her immediately, from her elaborate locs beneath her knit beanie to the dark brown of her lipstick.

"Mrs. Lewis," Rick's throat was suddenly tight, his chest pounding. "How did you find me?"

"You aren't hard to find," her voice was soft, gentler than he deserved. Her eyes locked on his face as though she was searching it, trying to see inside of him.

Alarm bells went off in his mind at her statement, but he pushed them to the back of his mind. "Did you want to come in?" he asked, reverting to his tried and true southern hospitalities. He fully expected her to decline, to speak her piece and leave him to his demons.

"Yes, please," she took a shaky step forward, then a second. Rick nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to let her in. He glanced up the street one last time, cataloguing. His neighborhood was quiet, safe, boring even, just like always. The thought did little to comfort him.

"Mrs. Lewis—" he began again, locking the door and pulling it firmly shut.

"Not missus." She corrected him. "Not anymore."

Guilt punched him like a fist in the stomach. He remembered her husband, the fear in his eyes, his body limp and slouched. There was not a night that it did not haunt him. "Ms…" he tried again.

"Michonne," she fiddled nervously with the buttons of her coat. "Just Michonne is fine."

"Michonne," he tried the name, the syllables foreign to his tongue. It was a beautiful name for a beautiful woman, a name he felt he had no right to. "How can I help you?" he asked. He busied himself by assisting her with her coat, grateful for the distraction. She relinquished it to him wearily, her gaze never straying far from his face.

They stared at one another in his foyer, the sound of the heater kicking on the only thing breaking the silence.

"I'm glad you asked," she said at long last. She tilted her head, reaching for her hat. Her locs tumbled free, distracting him for just a second. "You were there in my husband's last moments."

"I was," he sucked his teeth, his nerves jumping. "Michonne, I'm sorry—"

She cut him off, one of her elegant hands coming up palm first, as though she were directing traffic. "I don't need your apologies," she said firmly. "I need your help."

His breath stuttered. "My help?"

"You saw everything. I know they have you on administrative leave. You and your partner, Officer Blake." For the first time, the hint of anger colored her tone.

"He ain't my partner," Rick clipped out, his anger nearly matching her own. "Only reason I was there was I was afraid he'd—" he caught himself, abruptly snapping his mouth shut. He was on thin ice already. He hadn't missed the veiled threats by his superiors as he gave his statement. He'd been sent home like a naughty child with one mandate: Keep his mouth shut. It burned Rick up to his core.

"You were afraid he'd do what he did," Michonne said, color brightening her cheeks.

"I couldn't stop him," Rick lamented. Lord knows, he tried. He'd told the Captain the kind of man Phillip Blake was months ago. No one had listened. Now the chickens had come home to roost. Now a man was dead.

"You can," Michonne stepped toward him, her chin tilted up as she regarded him. "Stop him from doing it again. Help me get justice for Mike."

"How?" he willed himself to stay still, to not wilt beneath her judgement.

"Testify," the word left her lips on a whisper.

The thought had occurred to him. Breaking the blue shield was not a joke, least of all in a backwoods town in Georgia. He had Carl to consider. "It might not do anything," he whispered back, thinking of his son.

Then again, Mike had a little boy too. Rick saw his picture on the news. He couldn't have been much younger than Carl, this stoic son who stood so bravely beside podiums at press conferences. For all of his courage, he was still a child, a child that only had a mother now, a mother who had journeyed into the town where her husband was killed just to show up at his door.

"It will," she sounded confident, her voice steady, even as she trembled. "I have a plan, but I need help." She swallowed, tears coming to her eyes. "Officer Grimes, I need help." The dam broke at once, her façade crumbling as her small body shook with the effort. Rick felt the last of his resistance crumble.

He was hugging her before he realized what was happening. Her tears saturated the fabric of his shirt. She clung to him tightly. Rick had a fleeting moment of the oddity of the situation, of a police officer comforting the widow of a man killed by another officer in his precinct. The whole situation was senseless.

"Please," she squeaked the request into his chest. "Andre and I need your help."

Rick pulled back just the slightest, fixing her with his gaze. She stared back, eyes wet and swollen. His heart broke all over again.

"I'll testify," he promised her. "For your husband and your son. And for you." He owed the man he couldn't save. He'd do his damnedest to save his wife.

He didn't deserve her smile, but he reveled in it nonetheless, his heart lightening just the slightest for the first time in weeks.

"We can do this," she told him. "Together." She held out her hand, palm forward.

"Together," he agreed, shaking it.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Turns out I wasn't quite done with this one. The good news about waiting for a hurricane is that you have tons of uninterrupted time inside to write. So without further ado... Here's chapter 2.**

 **Look forward to one or two more chapters, coming soon. Let me know what you think!**

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"You're tired," it was not a question.

Michonne blinked at the man beside her. Officer Rick Grimes was peering at her with those piercing blue eyes of his.

"I'm all right," Michonne protested. Inconveniently, her body disagreed, choosing to betray her by releasing the largest yawn known to man.

Rick's face creased as he shot her his best skeptical look. "Michonne…" he sighed. "We've been at this for 6 hours," one glance at his phone confirmed this. "You need to rest."

"I can work a few more hours," Michonne assured him. Stamina she had in droves, developed over many all-nighters at law school and her first few years of motherhood.

"I've no doubt you can," Rick reached for his half empty glass of water, draining it. "But we're going to be in court tomorrow and you need to be sharp."

"I'm always sharp," it came out harsher than she meant it to. Rick recoiled a bit, but recovered quickly.

"I know that," he kept his voice amenable, "You've been working on this for months, Michonne. The best thing you can do now is get some rest."

"They're going to grill me tomorrow," she was terse, irritable. "I need to be ready."

He reached for her, laying his hand on top of hers. Michonne paused, looking at it. Since she'd cried in his arms that fateful night six month ago, Rick had refrained from so much as rubbing shoulders with her. Michonne knew why. Guilt haunted his every step, colored their every interaction. She pretended that it didn't bother her, the way he tip toed on egg shells around her, around Andre. In reality, it was a stark reminder of the reality of her situation. The most faithful friend she'd had in six months was an officer in the precinct that had killed her husband.

"Michonne, you're ready," he told her, applying light pressure. "There ain't a better lawyer than you in 10,000 miles—"

"That's not true," she cut Rick off, the first tendrils of a panic attack beginning to seize her. She inhaled shakily. "Blake's lawyer is notorious for getting guys like him off." Milton Mamet had built his reputation on protecting officers like Phillip Blake. He was the pale, unassuming face seen in the background of America's most notorious trials. "I have to be ready for anything Mamet throws at me…" she attempted to pull her hand back and return to her work. Rick held fast.

"Michonne," he began again, his thumb rubbing patterns into her skin. "Look at me," he instructed gently.

The palpitations were beginning again, the shortness of breath, the terror looming over her. She rocked dizzily in her seat, clutching the edge of Rick's kitchen table with her free hand. Never before had a panic attack seized her in another's presence. She felt mortified, weak.

"I'm sorry," she gasped.

She could hear the faint sounds of Rick's kitchen chair scraping across the hardwood beneath the thrumming in her ears. He released her hand and Michonne was quick to pull it back to her chest. She did not count on him bending down mere inches from her, caressing the back of her head.

"Michonne," he leaned towards her, tilting her chin up. "Look at me," he repeated. "Look at me and breathe."

"I'm ok," she told him, still shaking.

"Of course you are," he smiled at her. It was just a faint twist of the lips, barely of flash of teeth, but Michonne's eyes were immediately drawn to it. She had never seen Officer Rick Grimes smile in half of a year. "I just want you to breathe with me, ok?" he said soothingly. "In and out," he took a deep breath by way of example.

Michonne imitated him. She exhaled shakily.

"Good," he praised her. "Good," his hand slid down her arm, trapping her wrist. Her pulse fluttered against his fingers. "How are you feeling?" he asked.

"I'll be ok," Michonne assured him, inhaling and exhaling in a measured rhythm.

"That's not what I asked," Rick said. He released her, reaching behind him to drag his chair closer. He dropped himself back into the seat, looking at her expectantly.

Michonne stared back, "How am I feeling?" she asked, incredulous.

"Yes," he said simply. He leaned over, elbow on the table, cradling his head in one hand. Michonne stared back at him. He looked…disheveled, tired. His hair, normally slicked back and tidy, hung in loose curls around his face. He had the makings of an impressive beard dusting his cheeks, and bags beneath his eyes.

"You need to clean up before tomorrow," she managed to say.

He chuckled, almost in disbelief. "Michonne, you know I will," he fixed her with that stare of his again. "We're not talking about me. I asked about _you_."

"Me," Michonne let out a broken chuckle. "How am _I_ feeling?" she repeated. "Let me see," she began, borderline frantic, "my husband is dead, our son walks around carrying all this grief, and his murderer has the best damn lawyer in the country." She inhaled, gaining steam. "And tomorrow, tomorrow I have to get up, I have to stand in front of a judge, and a jury of white people who have no idea the kind of man Mike was, and I have to convince them to give Mike justice." She began to shake again, pressure releasing behind her eyes all at once. "And even if I do all of _that_ , if I do the impossible, Mike still isn't coming back."

She began to cry in earnest, the tears escaping without her permission. In front of her, Rick grew blurry. She felt his hand on hers once more, the calloused surface warm and surprisingly comforting.

"It ain't fair," he stated the obvious, his voice heavy. "You didn't deserve this hand, but no matter what happens tomorrow," he squeezed, drawing her attention back to him. "You are going to be all right. You're the hardest working, most intelligent, most deserving woman I know. And you're going to keep right on being that. But you need to rest, Michonne. Andre can't lose you too."

"What would you know?" it was unkind perhaps, but she could not help the question from slipping past her lips. Rick was not offended.

"My wife wasn't killed, true," Rick said, "but she did die. And our baby with her." He leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. "I didn't even know she was pregnant until the autopsy report."

Michonne froze, tears still wet on her cheeks. "I didn't know," she said.

Rick ventured a weak smile. "I never told you," he said simply. "Its hard to talk about."

For months, she hadn't given much thought to Rick's personal situation. She knew he had a son, a bright, polite boy with a winning grin. Andre had taken to him immediately. Michonne had supposed that his mother was elsewhere, a weekends and holidays type parent. "How did—" she began.

"Car accident." Rick swallowed. "There were plenty of times in that first year where it felt like I couldn't breathe. Sometimes I wished I'd just stop altogether," he confided. "But I have Carl, just like you have Andre."

"Does it get better?" she asked.

"You learn to live with it. Some days its hard, others…" he shrugged. "But you need to take care of yourself. You can't be strong all of the time," he reminded her.

Michonne sat quietly, processing this. "Maybe you're right," she said.

Rick pressed his advantage. "You've worked on this nonstop for half a year. You've prepared every argument, counter argument, opening and closing statements, cross examinations," he listed them on his fingers. "No one is more ready for this than you. Rest now," he told her.

She nodded, feeling the exhaustion of half a year collapse on her suddenly. "Maybe I should go home," she said. Andre was with his grandparents, 2,500 miles away in Sacramento. She wanted him far from this three ring circus, far from their scrutinizing glances, far from the Kings County police department.

"No chance," Rick stood up. "You're dog tired, and I'm not leaving you alone tonight," his tone left no room for argument. "I have a spare room. You can rest there. I'll drive you home in the morning, and then we'll go to court," he paused. "Together."

It hit her in this moment, just how much Rick had sacrificed. He'd been there beside her, an immovable object, even when his fellow officers berated and threatened him, when he was fired under some false pretense, when his son came home from school, claiming he'd been followed. Rick had endured all of this without complaint, for Mike. For _her_.

"All right," she nodded, wiping at her face.

He looked surprised for half a moment before he helped her to her feet. She knew the lay of his home by now, but did not stop him from showing her the bathroom, where the spare towels were kept. She accepted a pair of gray sweatpants and a worn Braves t-shirt from him as pajamas. She washed her face and brushed her teeth with the toothbrush she'd taken to carrying in her purse. He bid her goodnight quietly.

Michonne laid awake in Rick's guest bedroom, her head on the worn but comfortable pillow, listening to the sounds of the shower. The house was unbelievably quiet, almost eerily so. She wondered where Carl was tonight, whether Rick had send him away like Andre. She wondered if Rick was worried too, for himself, for his son, for what life would be like if they lost. She could hear him stepping out of the bathroom, padding to his bedroom across the hall. She stared at the ceiling, unable to rest, wondering how many nights that Rick had done the same.

She was across the hall and knocking on his door a few moments later, almost in a trance. He opened it, bewildered.

"Michonne," Rick said in surprise, quickly pulling on a faded brown t-shirt. "Are you all right?"

"Couldn't sleep," she swallowed. "It's too quiet," she told him. "Too empty."

He looked at her hard for a moment. "Do you want to come in?" he asked cautiously. Michonne nodded. He stepped back at once.

Rick's bedroom was modest, adorned only with necessities and a family portrait on the dresser. Michonne recognized a young Carl at once. She paused to look at the waifish young woman holding him.

"Lori," Rick said simply, following her gaze.

Michonne walked closer, bending to look. "She's pretty," she announced.

"She was," Rick agreed. "A good mother too."

"You were so young," Michonne observed. She almost couldn't believe it. They looked like country Barbie and Ken, bright-eyed, bushy tailed, and fresh-faced.

"Too young, maybe," Rick mused. Still, he smiled. "C'mon," he directed Michonne away from the photograph of his old life. Instead, he drew back the covers on one side of the bed. Michonne climbed in, refusing to think about it.

"Where's Carl?" she asked as Rick settled next to her.

He left a respectable distance between them, rolling to his side to face her. "With grandma and grandpa in Virginia," he said simply. "Andre?"

"California," Michonne replied. Her eyes felt heavy already. The bed was filled with Rick's comforting scent, with the warmth from his body.

"Sleep," he instructed. He touched her again, a slight caress as he pulled the blanket over her.

Michonne obeyed.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: 8 hour flights are good for writing! I hope you enjoy! Thank you for all of the positive feedback! Let me know what you think!**

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"You two think you won this one?"

Milton Mamet's nasally inflections shattered the tranquility of the moment. Michonne hastily wiped her face, rubbing away the remnants of her tears. Her back nearly hit the vending machine behind her. She was still reeling from emotions of the day, free falling. Rick had pulled her away from the courtroom minutes ago, away from the jury, the judge, the spectators, the press, away from everyone. She did not stop him. She was so exhausted that it was a wonder she could stand up.

"What did you say?" Rick turned around in the narrow lounge, putting himself between Michonne and Milton. Venom laced his words. His face, now creased in irritation, had been the picture perfect example of All-American southern manners not an hour ago. She'd woken up three days ago in an empty but comfortable bed to be greeted with the sight of a clean shaven Rick. Through the whole ordeal of the trial he looked very much the way he had six months ago, when he was an officer of the law, the night Mike was killed. Michonne found that she preferred his beard. Still, she'd spent every subsequent night at his house, feeling safer in his presence than she did alone.

"I said," Milton began again, tilting his chin up defiantly, "You two think you've won? A guilty verdict doesn't mean anything. We're going to appeal."

"Good for you," Rick cut his eyes at Blake's lawyer, turning back to Michonne. He touched her arm, gently steering her to grab her bag. She was angry, but had no strength now to fight. She said her piece in the courtroom, to the jury, and to the reporters outside. She had no words left for a man so small as Milton Mamet. The culmination of six months of anxiety was weighing on her. Michonne wanted to be anywhere but still in this courthouse.

She stepped closer to Rick, ready to leave. "Let's go," she told him.

Rick nodded, furious, but as compliant to her wishes as always.

"Look at you," Milton scoffed, his voice raising in timbre. "How long was your husband dead before you started sleeping together?" He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "I bet you were screwing before he even died! Who makes friends with a cop who watched her husband die—"

Rick moved faster than either Milton or Michonne could anticipate. She was just able to catch Rick's arm before he landed his hit. Her fingers curled around his bicep and she yanked. Milton flinched, falling backwards against a folding table as though Rick had actually struck him. Michonne rolled her eyes.

"Don't," she warned Rick. She would give Mamet no ammunition to fuel his hateful fire, would not allow Rick to become a target. He'd been grilled enough up on that witness stand as it was. She had watched for the better part of a week as everything from his service record to his marriage and personal life had been peeled apart in front of the jury. When Mike proved to be above reproach, even in death, the defense team tried to paint Rick as an emotionally unstable widower, an unreliable witness who projected his pain onto Michonne. Perhaps they did share a pain now, but it was neither of their doings. Up on the stand, Rick's stoicism and charm had been marvelous. Now, he seemed seconds away from a long overdue breakdown. "Rick," she rubbed his arm, massaging gently, "Let's go."

Rick paused, glancing back at Michonne. He was flushed, his face creased in anger. There was a dangerous edge to him and Michonne knew if she couldn't stop him now, he'd likely beat Milton to death in the break room of the state courthouse. "C'mon," she tried again, tugging at him.

Rick dropped his arm. He seized Michonne's bag. She coaxed it gently from his hand, leading them both past a red faced Milton.

"I'll be seeing you again!" He yelled after them. Michonne did not slow down until they made it to Rick's truck. Rick opened the door for her, helping her in before slamming the door on his own side. He proceeded to unleash the most ungentlemanly wave of curse words that Michonne had ever heard from him.

"Pencil-dick, cowardly, racist, mother-fucking prick!" Rick wrapped up his tirade, pausing for a breath. "He's lucky I didn't have a gun," Rick punched the dashboard. He was breathing heavily, his chest heaving.

Beside him, Michonne began to laugh. The gesture caught both of them off guard. Rick stared at her, wide eyed as her chuckles escalated, tears steaming down her face.

"Michonne," his rant ended abruptly. "I'm sorry—"

"Rick," Michonne reached for him. His hand was warm beneath her fingers. "Fuck Milton," she echoed his sentiment. Blake had left that courthouse in handcuffs. His charges carried a minimum sentence of 10 years. It would never be enough, but it was more than she dared hope for.

Rick stared at her in shock. "Michonne, are you ok?" He asked cautiously.

She laughed again, a gurgling, watery sound and wiped her face, makeup rubbing into her eyes. Rick reached over her, opening his glove compartment and handing her a crumpled drive-thru napkin wordlessly. She accepted it, cleaning mascara tracks from her face.

"We won," she said. "Blake is going to jail."

"But Milton is going to—"

"Fuck him," she repeated, louder this time. "My husband was murdered, Rick. His killer is going to prison. Do you think I care what some pencil-dick lawyer says?" She borrowed his phrasing. Milton could appeal endlessly for all she cared. They both knew he didn't have a leg to stand on.

"So, you're ok?" Rick asked, clearly worried.

"No, not at all," Michonne answered honestly. "But we got some justice today." She flipped down his sun visor, wiping at her skin, inspecting her appearance in the small embedded mirror, and tried to ignore Rick's measured stare.

Rick considered this, drumming his hands on the steering wheel.

"Michonne..." he began.

"I really want to eat," she told him. "I want French fries."

"French fries," Rick repeated. She thought he might call her crazy, but he nodded. "Anything else?"

"A brownie," Michonne felt ravenous for the first time in months. "With ice cream." He considered this.

"All right," Rick started the truck. "I know a place."

The mom and pop diner hadn't been remodeled since it opened sometime in the 70s. The vinyl booth felt sticky, the table wobbled, and the fluorescent lighting could induce a seizure. The coffee was burnt, her head hurt, and Mike was still dead.

But Phillip Blake was going to prison, Rick remembered that she preferred barbecue sauce to ketchup with her fries, and he agreed that they should eat dessert first. That was something.

"You know," he ventured, setting down his spoon. "Mamet...he isn't the only one who's asking about our relationship."

"I know," she took another bite. The brownie was too hot, burning the roof of her mouth, but the ice cream on top of it was like a soothing balm. Michonne scooped more into her mouth.

"I don't care what they say about me," Rick sounded like he believed it. "But I don't want them talking about you."

Michonne sighed. "They've been talking about me my whole life, Rick," she reminded him. "But I know what you mean." Even her mother had wondered aloud about Michonne's friendship with the former officer. Michonne questioned it herself often. None of the questions mattered. It all amounted to the same thing: Rick was the best friend she'd ever had. "We're friends," she told him certainly.

"Do you think we would have been if Blake hadn't—" he stopped.

"Hard to say," Michonne looked at Rick. "I can't say I'd ever have been in Kings County if I could help it. And I wish a million times I would have made Mike take a flight to Mississippi instead of driving. But—" she paused. Rick was hanging on her every word. She ventured a small smile at him. "I think you and Mike would have liked each other a lot."

He looked pleased at that. "I wish to God if have met him under different circumstances. Met you under different circumstances."

"Me too," Michonne said simply.

A silence stretched between them. "I'm thinking of moving," Rick said. "For Carl. Lori's family is in Virginia and..." he broke off, rubbing his head in distress. "Less people know there. Carl and I can start over." He paused to look at her. "You could come. You and Andre."

Michonne felt her heart clench. "My mom says Andre is doing well in California," she began. "I think we could both use the break." She needed family right now. She needed time.

"Makes sense," Rick nodded. He picked at their French fries. "I'll miss you," he said suddenly, looking up at her.

"I'll call," she promised him. She knew she would one day. "And I will miss you too."

Beneath the table, he reached for her hand, squeezing. Michonne squeezed back.

"We should get pancakes," Rick glanced at the plastic menu. "Want to split?"

"I do," Michonne agreed, eating the last bit of brownie.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: It's time for this tale to come to an end! I hope you all enjoy the conclusion. Thank you for all of the positive feedback!**

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D.C. summers were blisteringly hot. It seemed unfair to Rick that a place could exist where you seemingly sweated your skin off in the summer, and had to dig your car out of piles of snow in the winter. Still, Carl liked it here, liked his friends, liked his school, and loved being less than a half hour from his grandparents. So Rick endured, adjusting as best as he could. He was wiping his dripping brow, tilting the bill of his faded red baseball cap up over his eyes when he felt his phone begin to vibrate from his pocket. He fished it out, still walking, expecting to see Carl's name, or Lori's parents.

Rick was sure he had misread when he glanced down at the number lighting up on his cellphone. He paused mid-step in the middle of the sidewalk, staring down in disbelief. Someone jostled by him rudely, cursing under their breath. Hastily, Rick stepped to the side, raising the phone to his ear.

"Hello?" he said cautiously.

"Rick," it was her, the lilt of her voice sweeter after months without hearing it. "I was hoping you'd pick up."

"Michonne," he couldn't help the smile that came to his face, even through his irritation. "I didn't think I'd be hearing from you ever again." She said she'd call, and for a long while, he'd held out hope. After months of radio silence though, he was forced to confront the reality that his friendship with Michonne was a thing of the past.

She paused, shuffling on the other line. "I'm sorry," Michonne said. "I'm so sorry, Rick. After the trial, it all got so insane. Reporters were knocking down the door, people were sending threats."

"I know," he'd received his fair share of the same. He couldn't get out of Georgia fast enough. Even Virginia had seemed too close. "I figured you'd lay low for a month or two, but it's been close to a year—" he couldn't help the hurt in his voice.

She too, sounded melancholy. "I wanted to call Rick, but I thought it was better this way. I wanted to let you get back to your life."

His life. Rick wasn't so sure what that was these days. Once upon a time, his life had been being an officer of the law, a husband, and a father. His life had been in Kings County with folks he'd known since primary school. But now….

"I heard you're in DC," Michonne said. "I heard you're still fighting the fight." There was something almost like pride in her voice.

"Yeah," he sighed. "Well, you know it ain't just Blake and Mamet. There's more, all across the country. We put one away but—" he broke off. Truthfully, the decision had been easy once the dust had settled. He could no longer be a police officer, but there were other ways to protect and serve.

"I know," she told him. There was a moment's silence . "How's Carl?" she asked.

This was familiar territory. Rick willingly engaged. "He's good. Loved those comic books you sent. Keeps asking after Andre," Rick paused, "and you." He'd tried not to be saddened when the package came, a box filled with things for Carl, things that Michonne had likely personally selected. There'd been a card on top for him, simple and white. Inside, she'd written the words, "thank you" in gold lettering. It now was tacked to the bulletin board in his office, pinned up among dozens of case studies.

"I needed to grieve," she told him suddenly. "I needed to rest. That whole year, it was like a hurricane and I couldn't-"

"I know," he didn't require her explanations. "Michonne, you've got nothing to be sorry about." He'd forgiven any of her perceived distance from the moment he saw her name glowing on his phone screen.

"Don't I?" she asked on a sigh. "I won my fight and I turned tail. You kept on fighting." There was shame in her voice. She was the last person who deserved to feel shame.

"I told you to rest, remember?" he asked her. "That night before we won. You promised me you would."

"I did," she said.

Rick wished he could see her face, see the expressions playing out there. "Well?" he prompted.

"Well what?" she seemed bemused. He could picture it, that look she gave him on the rare occasions that he confused her.

"Did you keep your promise?" he asked.

She laughed then. "I did," she said. "I took a long break." She let out another chuckle, an exhausted sound, as though she still couldn't quite believe where life had led them.

"Good," Rick leaned into the shade, searching for respite from this southern humidity. "You deserve it," he told her.

"The thing is, Rick, I think I'm done taking breaks," Michonne said.

"What do you mean?" he asked, heart pounding.

"Like you said, there's still work to do. And we made pretty good partners…"

"We did," he confirmed.

"I'd like to be partners again, if you need me," she offered.

"Of course," Rick didn't hesitate. "Of course I need you Michonne." It was the first time he had ever said the words out loud. He surprised even himself at how true it was.

"Well then," she sounded so pleased he could almost hear her smile. "Can I Andre and I share your couch until we get a place of our own? I've been checking out DC apartments."

"We have a brownstone," Rick said, grinning broadly. "It's technically in Maryland, but you can have the whole spare room. I'll let Carl know you're coming."

"I'll be there," she promised.

He wasn't sure he fully believed her until she showed up on his doorstep a month later.

"You've cut your hair," Michonne observed, leaning over his kitchen island. Carl and Andre had retired, exhausted after hours of running around outside having adventures in the backyard. Rick had offered Michonne a drink, eager to catch up with her. Now she sipped it, watching him from across the counter.

"So did you," he smiled at her. Her long locs were gone, replaced with a close-cropped fade. "I like it."

"We're twins," she smiled back. She reached out for him, tracing the short hair above his ear. "I may have to ask you for your barber's number," she complimented. His skin seemed to spark beneath her finger.

"It's yours," he assured her, taking a drag of his own beer to steady himself. They stared at one another for a long moment, the space between them growing increasingly more charged.

"I have an interview with the organization this week," Michonne told him suddenly, breaking the moment. "They said you vouched for me."

"Of course," Rick chuckled. "Not that I needed to. They jumped when I mentioned you moving here."

"You'll have to catch me up," she said, tugging at the short curls atop her head. "I've missed so much. There's months of case work to go over and—"

"I will," Rick said. "Later."

"Later?" she looked amused.

"Later," he confirmed. "I want to catch up with _you_ first." He set his beer bottle down.

"What do you want to know?" she asked. She leaned forward again, the fabric of her sundress dipping low.

"How are you feeling?" he questioned, determinedly keeping his eyes up.

She began to laugh in earnest, setting down her half full bottle. "You haven't changed, Rick," she smiled at him, walking around the corner to stand in front of him. Rick straightened up, meeting her gaze.

"Well," he prompted. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm better," she said. "Some days are hard, some days..." Michonne shrugged. She reached for his hand, clasping her long fingers around his. "You were right."

"Sometimes I get it right," he teased. He twisted his wrist, lacing his fingers with her own. She took another step closer to him. "I missed you," Rick told her, exhaling deeply. "I wondered about you all the time."

Michonne worried her bottom lip between her teeth. "I missed you too, Rick. I just…" she sighed. "I had to put Mike to rest."

He nodded, understanding. They were coming up on two years soon, two years since he'd seen Blake pull the trigger, since he spent weeks reeling in guilt and disgust, since Michonne showed up on his porch.

"Do you ever regret it?" she asked suddenly. "Helping me? You lost so much…"

"Hey," he silenced her, cupping her chin with his free hand. She shivered at the touch, still chilled from his beer bottle. "I don't regret it. I'd do it again." He would, though he wished he could spare her the whole affair.

She nodded, her dark eyes fixed on him. Her hand reached up to touch his arm. She traced her fingers up, leaving goosebumps in her wake. Slowly, she leaned towards him.

Rick met her halfway. He pulled her into his arms, pressing his mouth to hers. She tasted sweet, like summer cider. Her lips molded to his, her arms twisting around his shoulders. She pulled back after a moment, resting her forehead against his.

"I think I'm ready to start over, Rick," she whispered, her lips brushing his. "If you wanted to start over with me."

In answer, he held her tighter, cradling her.

"Together," he whispered.

"Together," she agreed, kissing him again.


End file.
